Unread

She’s like a dear letter sent to me. Not from a postman, but from the neurons and nerve ends of my cells, my thoughts. Something that I wanna read every single day. Like the unembroidered letters from the alphabet, engraved with care and authenticity.

My floating mind never predicted it to be like this. To make me foolish and let the entire world judge me as if I’m an unusual, weird creature. They labeled me desperate, romantic at a different perspective. Not outside nor inside the box, but thinking that there's no box. This is not an obsession nor a very intimate fondness, but a complicated glimpse of being inlove.

I’m out of my mind and I can’t explain it. It happens I guess. More like I can’t let out a simple reason for why is this happening. Maybe I knew it, the whole rationale, but I’m just holding it in, making myself believe in my mind-boggling instinct, but truth is, it’s nothing. Nothing but the tragic reality of my own love story. A hyperbolized one.

But even then, she captivated my whole being. She distorted the gradually fading pointless script of the drama, the show, the whole story or whatever other may call it. She twisted a castle in the sky into an authentic century old house made of bamboo which I really like. She threw the billion dollar crown off her head just to let me in, a welcoming queen.

And I adore her even more with no hesitations, no regrets. My beloved, sweet rebel. My everything. The one that I wanted to read over and over again.

But she’s just a story. An idea about her that I created in my mind. The story that I’m the only one who knew, a story of how much I’m so inlove with you.